


Dark Pockets Pastries and Bistro

by FolleDeJoie



Category: Pilgrimage (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, animal control!mute, barista!diarmuid, coffee shop AU, just a bit of fun and fluff, raccoon cafe au, raccoons will soon make an appearance, this one goes to the discord
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:54:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24396877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FolleDeJoie/pseuds/FolleDeJoie
Summary: His mother used to say to anyone that would listen that if routine had a name, it would be David. As much as David hated to admit it, she might’ve been right.He liked what he liked, and he didn’t see any shame in the old proverb ‘if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it’. He liked the fabric softener he’d been using every week for ten years, he liked the honey laced porridge he made every morning, he liked going shopping on Thursday evening’s because the cashier that worked there seemed nicer than the others. He liked the mom & pop café because they opened early, knew his order, and didn’t mind his silence when he picked it up. It was convenient, and easy, and above all else: predictable.That’s why he knew that he was in for a rough day when he made his way towards the café that morning before his shift and found it barred shut, lights off.- an unbeta'd modern au
Relationships: Brother Diarmuid/The Mute
Comments: 3
Kudos: 20





	Dark Pockets Pastries and Bistro

His mother used to say to anyone that would listen that if routine had a name, it would be David. As much as David hated to admit it, she might’ve been right.

The clothes he wore all came from the same discount store, moth eaten and clumsily sewed. The small set of books in his cabinet had started curling at the edges with all the time’s they’d been thumbed through them. He’d only started using a DVD player when his inherited VHS player had started smelling like burning plastic, and even then it was his older brother that had bullied him into the second-hand shop.

David wouldn’t consider himself a creature of habit, per say. His stint in the armed forces had brought with it a routine he felt comfortable with, had been clear concise orders until he realised that they… weren’t so clear after all. He had joined when he was too young maybe, fresh out of high school and only looking for something to do. He’d been exactly what they were looking for, and he’d thought the same at the time too. But it hadn’t worked out in the end, really. Hadn’t worked out at all. Had left the guns and the blood and the fires in the sands behind him.

One of the things he’d brought back was that same routine that had been fine-tuned and tweaked to fit his new lifestyle. Simple and effective.

He liked what he liked, and he didn’t see any shame in the old proverb ‘if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it’. He liked the fabric softener he’d been using every week for ten years, he liked the honey laced porridge he made every morning, he liked going shopping on Thursday evening’s because the cashier that worked there seemed nicer than the others. He liked the mom & pop café because they opened early, knew his order, and didn’t mind his silence when he picked it up. It was convenient, and easy, and above all else: predictable.

That’s why he knew that he was in for a rough day when he made his way towards the café that morning before his shift and found it barred shut, lights off. There was a small note pasted on the inside of the window which explained that their daughter was expecting, and they wouldn’t be open until the following week in celebration.

He had frowned and shoved his hands further into his pockets, breath visible in the cold dawn. He had been looking forward to his usual turkey toastie and hot chocolate, so he felt justified in his momentary disappointment (even if he felt guilty at the thought, knowing how excited the older couple had been for months). It was fine, though. There were other cafés with other toasties.

It surprised him to find out that apparently 5 am was too early for most of them. He had wandered around the usual path he took towards his office building, peering into every shop as his shoulder’s slumped with every ‘closed’ sign. A few had barista’s already working and setting up, but he had quickly fled at the look of anger and resignation as he caught their gaze through the windows.

Arriving at his office toastie-less and thirsty, he made his way to the not-so-frequented staff kitchen. He usually stayed in his office when he could, picking something up from the local supermarket when he was on call, and even though he’d been in the building for five years it still felt strange to him. His co-workers were friendly and dedicated to keeping the parks and downtown areas free from pesky wildlife, but he didn’t see them too much outside of business hours. He might go for the occasional beer with them on a Friday night, but he never stayed too long.

He appeared to be the first in the building, aside from the cleaning crew. The auxiliary lights buzzed and clicked in the silence, and he couldn’t help squinting at the harsh LEDs. It was warm inside, at least, but he knew he probably wouldn’t be there for too long. Winter was always hit or miss: housewives calling about the possums that lurked in the crawlspace under their houses, rats in the attic of schoolhouses, stray cats roaming the alleyways behind restaurants for scraps. And it was his job to ‘deal with them appropriately’, as the head of the department had told him with a grimace.

As much as he tried to tell them that he was Animal Control -not Pest Control-, the local government had deemed them a jack of all trades and had severely slashed their budget after the elections. A stray was a stray in their eyes, a blight upon the streets and the postcard picture that they tried to present to the tourists. He didn’t believe that though, had been raised to believe all creatures had a soul: if he spent most of the budget on cages instead of poison, then he could deal with the put-upon sighs and angry memos left on his desk.

He set about making the large communal pot of coffee, leaving it on the electric burner as he sat uncomfortably in the creaky plastic chairs. His whole day felt off, somehow. There was something lurking at the corner of his still-sleepy brain that made him shift in his seat, not knowing what to do with his hands, leg bouncing underneath the scuffed and stained table. He stood up and leaned on the counter, fingers drumming a rhythm as he watched the pot boil.

Not long after, he heard the tell-tale signs of his colleagues laughing and joking down the corridors, doors clanging shut behind them as he took a sip of the bitter drink. He couldn’t hide the wince as how bad it was, remembering why he stuck to non-caffeinated drinks in the morning. Well, at least his day could only get better from there.

It turned out that optimism didn’t suit him in the slightest.

He’d been sent to a house that looked like something straight out of suburbia for a potential rat infestation, which turned out to be cockroaches in one of the walls. He’d explained slowly but fumblingly that an exterminator would be necessary, but the housewife hadn’t appreciated his words and had instead ranted and raved about her taxes and the government’s duty and compensation. Luckily his second had been there to put her down before she could get going: Rua, with his sharp tongue and short fuse, had told her where her taxes could go, ripping a piece of paper with a number on it out of his notepad that she could call.

The next had been a possum that had been seen limping around the closed-off schoolyard. The poor thing had been half-starved, leg jolting at a strange angle that made him think it had been hit by a car. He’d spent two hours in the cold trying to tempt it into the cage, but it darted back into its hiding place, hissing viciously at any attempt he made to coax it out. He’d finally managed, somehow, but even his bones had felt chilled as he loaded the screaming animal into the back of the truck.

Case after trying case, his mood soured and dimmed to the point that even Rua, cold bastard that he was, had told him to cheer up. He’d nodded but the pit in his stomach and ache in his chest deepened had remained as they drove the animals to the shelter and the clinics. The winters were hard for the creatures, sneaking into the town from the surrounding forests in search of something to eat. The black cloud lingered on his mind, making him sad to think about the ones that they hadn’t found, that they couldn’t save.

They’d returned to the office later than expected, only to find the head of department already grilling the other members of staff about their quotas and their budgets. The government chosen shelters weren’t at full capacity, numbers low compared to the other no-kill shelters, and how were they expected to keep it going if they weren’t going to bring them the pests? Was all the euthanasia medication they’d purchased supposed to go to waste? Didn’t they want the team and the department to succeed?

David had hunkered down at the edge of the room, away from the crowd that all looked uncomfortable at the speech, but he’d still been targeted. He stuck out like a sore thumb, he knew that: broad-shouldered and taller than most by at least a head, too quiet for his own good, he took the lecture that was thrown at him even as his mind cringed away.

His lunch had been cold, his nose had been running, he’d slipped on a patch of ice and bruised his leg. He’d almost been clawed in the face by a stray act, his shirt had a new hole in it, his head was pounding.

Clocking out that evening couldn’t have arrived sooner, and he managed the smallest of waves at his colleagues as he dug his hands once more as deep as they could go into his jacket pockets and slowly made his way to his apartment. The light was fading, sunset almost over in the way that winter days never lingered, and it had him longing for the warmth of a hot drink and his soft bed.

He was a few blocks away, mind trying to focus on something other than how badly he just wanted to sleep, when suddenly the heady smell of baking curled around him. It was overpowering and had his stomach grumbling instantly, and he looked around to see the lights on in a café down the street. He could make out the blue neon-lit sign that read ‘ _Dark Pockets Bistro’_ , and he frowned as he stumbled closer. He couldn’t remember having seen it open before, but then he did usually take a different route home to pick up his supper from his usual café.

He stepped up to the window, looking in and sizing up the number of patrons inside. Not too many for that time of night: a couple in a booth with their young kids, a few college students jabbing away at their laptops, two older women sat close together as they shared a piece of cake. It seemed quiet enough, and his stomach whined at the delicious smells emanating from behind the doors.

He pulled the door open with as much confidence as he could, flinching only slightly at the bell that chimed as he stepped through the threshold. He hunched his shoulders forward to make himself smaller, less assuming, and his hands jammed back into his pockets as he stepped up to the counter.

There was nobody around, though he heard chatting and plates clinking in a door behind the counter. He glanced down at the confectionery beneath the glass display and his mouth watered at what he saw: toasted sandwiches with different fillings but all loaded to bursting, red velvet cakes whose frosting swirled delicately, pastries and sweet treats of all types laid out like a feast. Only around half of each type remained, sometimes less, with only crumbs left behind. They all looked delicious. He was so focused on trying to decide what he wanted that he failed to notice when the door to the backroom opened.

“Can I help you there stranger?” A softly accented voice asked him, and he jolted his eyes away from the treats to see who had spoken. It was a young man, probably in his early twenties; he had a thick head of brown curls that dipped just below his ears and framed his pale face, the last vestiges of puppy fat clinging to his cheeks. His eyes were a deep brown, flecked with golden hues that glinted in the soft lights. He was shorter than him, as most people usually were, but his posture was strong and reflected his confidence in a way that David found immediately endearing.

He didn’t realise that he’d been staring until he saw one of the man’s brows quirk upward, and David cleared his throat and looked back down at the pastries just out of reach. He could feel the back of his neck heating up at the same time as his cheeks, embarrassment curling in his stomach.

He pointed to one of the enormous sandwiches, making sure not to dirty the glass with his clammy fingers.

“… that one, please.” he managed to mumble out, glancing up in time to see the other man smile and nod encouragingly, reaching over for a paper bag and his prongs. David watched the way he leaned into the counter, long lean arms gripping the utensil with ease as he dropped gently it into the bag.

“Anything else for you? My da’ makes all the pastries so they’re all fresh in the mornin’, but I put the price down nearer the evening to make sure we don’t waste nothin’. If you’re fancying something sweet, that is?” he asked, bouncing on his heels as he spoke.

David could only nod in a daze, heart racing as he pointed randomly at a few of the desserts. He didn’t have a sweet tooth, in fact he would usually steer clear of anything other than his customary hot chocolate in the morning. But maybe he was just in the mood. His mother was always telling him to try new things. Maybe he’d spontaneously decided to finally follow her advice, was all.

“That’ll be 7.20 when you’re ready, friend” The young man rang him up and David patted his pockets for his wallet, hastily handing over a crumbled up 20. He grabbed the bag on the counter, holding his hand out for the change and trying not to focus on the slender fingers that placed the coins in his own calloused ones. He nodded at him, smile itching at his lips even as a voice in the back of his head berated him at the pathetic attempt.

He opened his mouth to speak but a per usual, he blocked on the words he wanted to come out. Instead he cleared his throat once more, hastily slipping all his change in the tip jar and tipping the cap on his head in thanks. The young man stilled smiled but there was a perplexed furrow between his brows, and David turned back towards the entrance.

As he made his way through the door, he heard a deep male voice call out from the backroom “ _Diarmuid! These plates don’t wash themselves lad, I think it’s…_.” and the young man called back an affirmative.

The cold hit David like a slap even as his cheeks still flushed warmly, shoulder’s tense as he relived the awkward exchange. He made his way back towards his empty apartment, paper bag dangling from his tight grip as his mind lingered on the image of the young man who had served him. Maybe the bad day had been worth it.

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the lovely prompts in the Discord, I kind of took this and ran! Still writing the other fic, have no fear, but just wanted to try my hand at something a bit different :) may continue with this when I get the chance, for the moment marking as finished x


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